I was raised by two caring and oftentimes overly-cautious physicians in a drafty, yet comfortable, house in Portland. As a child, I was warned against especially vigorous games of basketball (lest I attempt a dunk, catch my fingers in the net, and suffer a degloving accident) and eating Thai chicken skewers straight off the stick (I might misjudge the location of said stick and stab myself through the throat). I was fortunate enough to arrive in one piece at the University of Virginia, fairly certain that I would follow in my parents’ footsteps as a guardian of health, and I signed myself up as a biology major. Several days into classes and two pages into a chapter on cell organization, I was fairly certain I would be anything but a biology major.

Fortunately I found architecture, transferring into the program a bit behind but full of enthusiasm for the subject. I thought I’d figured myself out until last summer, when my neighbor, an ex-architect, went out of his way to discourage me from the profession – unless I had no problem with becoming essentially a marriage counselor for upper-middle-class couples desiring additions on their already ostentatious homes.

Surprise – I do have a problem with that.

Despite my brother admitting to sometimes wearing socks on his hands in winter when he sleeps in his room above our uninsulated garage, my drafty house has been suitable to my family’s needs. It has a stable foundation, running water, designated sewage pipes, and – save for a few spiders taking maternity leave in our bookcases – minimal animal visitations. The reason my parents worried about tricycle use on steep hills and sugary chewing gum is because everything basic – the roof over our heads, education, warm meals, and good health – was always a given. Their concerns were never that flood damage might cause my house to collapse upon me or that I would be turned away from school for lack of space. What troubles me is that families across the globe face these concerns, and that my skill set as an architect could very readily help to ameliorate these problems. I don’t believe that the neighborhoods I saw on a trip to Tijuana – constructed from blue tarps and Americans’ cast-off garage doors – allow for privacy, ideal health, or even dignity. And how differently would events have transpired in Haiti if every building had been earthquake-proofed? Tacking a bonus room onto Richard and Nancy’s refined colonial seems irrelevant when juxtaposed with providing fundamental housing and infrastructure for neglected communities.

So, no, I don’t want to freelance remodels on McMansions or design air ducts in skyscrapers. I still want to somehow be that guardian of health I was conditioned to be. Thankfully, I’m discovering more and more that health and architecture are compatible fields – that the built environment is a powerful factor in affecting wellness and happiness. A simple but well-designed home or thoughtfully constructed community can limit the spread of disease and promote confidence. The key is not just functional, participatory design, but also appropriate design – using vernacular building techniques and native materials in novel ways, which promotes structural longevity while simultaneously supporting local industries. This is socially responsible architecture, the future of design. This gives me hope for the profession.

I suppose then that I could eventually work in a firm and support Architects Without Borders on the side, but “on the side” isn’t enough for me. I want to talk to people, understand what gives them comfort and security, and get my hands dirty. Knowing this about myself should give me more hope about the profession, yet somehow it doesn’t.

The truth is, I’m terrified. I’m terrified that I’ll become complacent, decide my dreams are too idealistic, and make excuses like I always have – I can’t miss rowing, I have to get a real job, I can’t leave my family. I fear that these concerns aren’t just my own. Few of the fantastically talented architecture students I know understand that all of their late-night hours in studio can be preparation for doing something amazing and impactful, not only in their own lives, but in many others’.

I’d like to be the one to prove it to them.

Qualifications as a student: I am a third year undergraduate architecture student at the University of Virginia. I take French, row on the women’s crew, and am a Peer Health Educator.

Qualifications as a journalist and video blogger: I write for and perform in a sketch comedy group at UVA. My high school English teacher, Greg Stiff, was a substitute teacher for Nicholas Kristof’s class in Yamhill, Oregon, for several weeks, and he can [allegedly] single-handedly claim influence for Nick’s later successes. Additionally, in 8th grade I won first place in an Elle Girl Magazine haiku contest about Orlando Bloom… those were dark times in my life.

Saumya Dave

The emotional surgery was gradual.

It took a few months to cut away some doubt; six years to dissect the parasitic fear. But soon, our family was reshaped, repackaged, and ready to leave India.

Our first home in America was a family friend’s basement. My father spent his days working as a respiratory therapist and his nights studying for the medical boards while my mother handled the night shifts at Kmart. We collected used, tattered furniture and accepted dishes donated from our friends. Despite the hardships, we managed to construct a fresh life with other people’s discards.

I often felt claustrophobic in our tiny space and yearned for an escape. Once, after I complained to my mother about my boredom, she calmly said, “Remember, we are very lucky to be here.” She explained that we came to this country for opportunities, that gratitude was the only option, and that we could not afford any other emotions at the time. Then, she handed me a book as a silent reminder about the importance of learning. Asian American families were always stressing education. It was, as my mother insisted, a way for us to establish our potential and exceed it.

I turned to reading for evasion and companionship. I drifted among magazines, short stories, and poetry until I nestled into the magnetic realm of fiction. I also wrote daily diary entries. There was a magic in giving birth to pregnant thoughts, in pushing ink against naked sheets of paper.

Words were my steadfast, selfless companion throughout the turbulent years of adolescence. I edited my high school and college newspapers, started a blog, published poetry, created song lyrics, studied at Oxford University, and wrote a novel. Writing allowed me to soak in the atmosphere through a more observant lens and toss it back out for everyone else to receive. Whether it was about women’s issues, political opinions, or healthcare innovations, I relished using details to paint snapshots of the world for others.

In college, I decided to pursue a career in medicine and learn about the biological workings of the human condition. My years were stuffed with lab research, hospital volunteering, and shadowing physicians. Writing and I started drifting apart. Sure, I missed it but thought that we could reunite whenever we had time, akin to how old friends who moved to different cities would.

After I graduated and was well on my way to becoming an M.D., I realized just how much I longed for my former best friend. Our planned visits never seemed to work out and I unsuccessfully tried to replace its presence with others. I took a year “off” from my medical career for us to get back in touch, which caused an (expected) uproar in our household.

“What about your education?” My parents demanded.

“I’ll get back to it after this,” I promised, trying to shake off the sticky guilt.

Our family tree was adorned with individuals who never veered off course. How could I neglect the one virtue that was always upheld?

I studied writing at Columbia University, worked with the underserved, and slept on many friends’ couches. Time was measured in pages. My life became saturated with rejections, rewrites, and a melodramatic tortured artist complex.

But in that blurry area between uncertainty and persistence, I grasped that education has many faces. I may not have been buried in a textbook but I was performing my own emotional surgery with experience.

Now, one year later, as I take a break from studying neuroscience, I no longer want to escape. Instead, I want to learn and expose the D.N.A. of injustice. I want to call attention to the medical and personal histories of people. I want to pack my suitcase with the essentials: good toilet paper, curiosity, Sudoku puzzles, and dorky puns. I want to undergo another emotional surgery and compel others to do the same.

You may recognize me as last year’s Win a Trip Runner Up. I apply again for the chance to receive a fresh faced education, a chance to exceed my potential.

In that basement apartment, words changed me. I believe that under your guidance, I can weave words and help change the world.

Olivia Morris

CHOCOLATE AT ANY COST?

After being stuffed with turkey, forced into family gatherings, and stuck attempting to balance all the credit cards, many look forward to Valentine’s Day to bring them out of the post-holiday blues. Thankfully, it’s right around the corner, and love is in the air. It’s a time for flowers, romance, and of course, chocolate. Did you know that the average American eats 10-12 pounds of chocolate a year? What many chocolate lovers don’t know is the misery of forced child labor that may have gone into satisfying their sweet tooth.

Forty-three percent of the world’s cocoa beans, the raw material used to make chocolate, come from farms along West Africa’s Ivory Coast. On many farms, 12 to 14 year old boys do the hot, arduous work of clearing the fields and harvesting the beans. The UN Children’s Fund recently reported that 200,000 children in Africa are victims of human trafficking yearly. Often working more than 80 hours a week, these children are barely fed and severely beaten if they try to escape. Most will never see their families again and for them, school is not an option.

In 2001, Senators Eliot Engel and Tom Harkin introduced legislation to regulate the US chocolate industry but the industry lobbied against their efforts. As a compromise, the industry agreed, along with West African governments and farmers, to help companies wean themselves from child labor by 2005. But, a startling ten years later, the US cocoa industry has not yet abolished this practice.

There are alternatives. Farmers that are members of Fair Trade Certified or Organic producer groups are guaranteed a fair price and that their work meets certain labor, wage, and environmental standards. This ensures that workers receive the pay they deserve and require to support their families, thus allowing their children the freedom to attend school.

This is an important topic to ponder. Education allows individuals to become productive members of society. Everyone should have access to an education, because everyone deserves a chance to fulfill his or her dreams. As John F. Kennedy once said, “Our progress as a nation can be no swifter than our progress in education.”

When I was 16, I founded the organization Chocolate Change because I couldn’t imagine being unable to attend school and instead being forced to work long hours under dangerous and unsafe conditions. For the past three yeas, we’ve worked with several local organizations and school districts to help raise awareness about the issue. I refuse to stay quiet while knowing that children are being exploited, and that I help fuel the problem with every piece of chocolate I purchase. I believe that if more people are made aware of this issue and learn about the choices they have, they might decide to make a chocolate change with me. By shifting chocolate purchases to fair trade and organic varieties, every single consumer can help more children from slavery to freedom; from work to school.

Because of my passion for community service and social justice, I was awarded the Martin Luther King Jr. Scholarship from New York University. There, I study film and television production. I considering majoring in theatre or broadcast journalism, but I love every aspect of filmmaking, and I’ve had ample experience in everything from script writing to post-production. As an MLK Scholar, we hold seminars about global issues, organize events, and complete service projects both at home and abroad. A trip to Africa would an exciting, thought provoking, and truly enriching experience, and I’d love the opportunity to combine my enthusiasm for service with my love for film production.

Olivia also submitted a video:

Semonti Hossain

Marisa Wong

About Nicholas Kristof

This blog expands on Nicholas Kristof’s twice-weekly columns, sharing thoughts that shape the writing but don’t always make it into the 800-word text. It’s also the place where readers make their voices heard.